The Family Remains(22)

‘No. No, I haven’t spoken to him for a few weeks. I had to write to him a while back about some works to the roof. Some scaffolding. But nothing since then.’

‘And this was his apartment? I mean, he used to live here?’

Joe squints up at the ceiling and then back at me. ‘I suppose he must have lived here. At some point. As some of his things are still here.’

‘Like the photos, you mean?’

‘Yes, like the photos. They were in a drawer in the desk in the bedroom.’

‘Could I see them, do you think?’

‘Yeah. Sure. I mean, I already got them out for you. Here.’ He turns and scoops a small pile of photos from a shelf behind him and passes it to me.

I leaf through them, my cheeks sucked in hard against my teeth with the effort of not shaking, not betraying my excitement and anxiety. I clear my throat and glance down.

There he is. There is Phin. Not beardy and sun-crisped as he is in the photo I’ve been staring at obsessively since the night of Libby’s birthday, but clean-shaven, young. What – late twenties, early thirties? Sporting a variety of haircuts from shaven-headed to long and floppy. Suntanned here, pale there, in jumpers and padded coats, in shorts and vest tops. He has a tattoo, I see, just one, on his bicep – very old-school, like a sailor – I can’t tell what it is. Phin smiles, he frowns, he laughs, he eats, he drinks, he faces the camera, away from the camera. He has his arm around girls, his arm around boys. He drinks beer. He drinks champagne. He sits in restaurants and on beaches. He looks beautiful in each and every one. His looks have lasted him all the way through from twelve years old to over forty. It’s appallingly unfair. I look for a sign that one of the supporting actors in these photos might be someone of some intimate significance; I look for something to tell me about his sexuality, about which way he’s landed in the world after his ambiguous beginnings. But he is sexless, flawless, impossible to read, like a children’s TV presenter.

‘Do you happen to know, if he … well, was he in a relationship with anyone that you knew about?’

Joe shakes his head, sadly. ‘Not that I know of. He never mentions anyone, at least. And I guess his lifestyle, out there in Africa, it’s probably a single guy’s existence, y’know?’

‘Yeah. I suppose it is. Could I – Would you mind? If I just took some photos of these?’

‘Oh. Yeah. Sure. Go ahead.’

I get out my phone and arrange the photos on the kitchen counter. ‘And you said that you had an email address for him? I don’t suppose you’d be able to give that to me?’

For the first time, Joe looks uncertain. ‘I mean’ – he strokes his chin – ‘I mean, I could. I guess. But I wonder if maybe he’s trying to lay low? On purpose? Would it be an infringement of his privacy?’

‘Oh, Joe. What a sweet thing to worry about. And you’re right to think about it. Absolutely. But no, he’s definitely not lying low on purpose. He was desperate for this reunion, desperate for us all to get together again, after everything we’ve been through, as a family. It was all he ever wanted.’

‘But you must have it, right? If you’ve been talking to him? You must already have it?’

He’s lost me. ‘Have what?’

‘Finn’s email address?’

‘Ah!’

Good question.

‘Good question,’ I say. ‘We, er, we always talked on WhatsApp, actually. Never on email. But his messages aren’t landing now. And he’s not answering his phone. And it’s all … a bit of a worry.’

Joe still looks uncertain, but I can see him wavering. ‘Sure,’ he says, picking up his phone. ‘Sure. Here. It’s [email protected].’

I want to ask him how Phin has spelled his name, but realise that that will sound alarm bells, so I write it as I’ve been told Phin now spells it and smile gratefully. ‘Fantastic,’ I say. ‘Really fantastic, thank you. And I don’t suppose you know if there’s anyone in the city who might have more of an idea about him? Or his whereabouts? I mean, does he use an agent to rent you this place? Or do you rent it through him directly?’

‘Yeah. Through him directly. Or at least, my parents do.’

I can tell that Joe is starting to tire of this. I’m asking too many questions and he’s not sure he should be answering them. Asking for his parents’ details now would be pushing him way outside his comfort zone so I clap my hands together and say, ‘Well, I think it’s time to leave you be. I’ve infringed on your time far too much as it is. But thank you. Thank you so much, Joe. If I find anything out, I’ll be sure to let you know.’

I smile and bow my head slightly, sling my bag across my chest and then I say, ‘Would you mind terribly’ – I never use the word ‘terribly’ in England, but I feel it has a certain power here – ‘if I used your bathroom before I hit the road?’

‘Sure. Yeah. It’s just off the hallway.’ He points me in the general direction. I ape his movements and he nods.

The toilet is opposite his bedroom. I can’t help but poke my head around the door, just to see – just to let my gaze come down upon Phin’s bed, where he once slept, with God knows who, maybe some of the people I now have images of on my phone, the ones he has his arm around, the ones he drank with, ate with, laughed with, loved. The bed is neatly made: grey sheets with Moroccan-style cushions and a cream throw with knotted edges. It sits in a bay window, overlooking the street. I close my eyes and picture myself there, in that bed, unfurling myself after a night spent curled into Phin’s solid back, running my fingertip over his solitary tattoo. I open my eyes again and see the empty bed. Joe is the only link I have to Phin, I realise. If I walk out of here, I’m back to square one.